Sacrificial
by AmayaSora
Summary: "There are only two people who can tell you the truth about yourself - an enemy who has lost his temper and a friend who loves you dearly." H/D Oneshot. Complete.


**I don't quite know where this came from, honestly. But I do know I quite like it. I don't remember writing something as easily as I wrote this; it's only been through one draft. Clearly, whatever I did just **_**worked.**_

**This is an aspect to the beauty of Drarry that I've never explored before, so that's exciting, for me. As a warning, this will not have a happy ending, at all. But I encourage you to read it anyway; to me, it's as strong a statement of love as if they'd ended with a kiss.**

**-AmayaSora**

_**Disclaimer:**_** I don't own Draco, Harry, or any other part of JKR's wonderful Potterverse. I write only out of love for the characters and the craft.**

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"_There are only two people who can tell you the truth about yourself - an enemy who has lost his temper and a friend who loves you dearly." - Antithenes_

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Sacrificial

He was happy. That should have been enough.

It seemed like enough for everyone else, especially the man himself. Potter went about his day with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, and you could find traces of it even after the paparazzi had found him. His whole body tightened, his shoulders sagged- clearly, he dreaded it- but then he'd spot someone through the crowd, a familiar face, and there the bounce would return.

He honestly _was_ happy. It was true. And yet, he wasn't. Not really. Not when you looked closer, deep, deep down, so deep Potter himself might not even have noticed it- yet. But he would. And when he did, things would change. Drastically. For the worse. His steps would weighten, his face would line, and his smile would fade. It had to, once he started thinking about the losses.

Sure, he thought about them now, reminisced on found memories, attended the funerals, wrote tributes in publication after publication. It wasn't even the tears at the funerals; that was pretty much expected. No, it was the visits that delivered the damning evidence.

He couldn't stay away from the graves for long. Every other day, sometimes more, he would visit one or the other, tidy up unnecessarily, stay for a moment. Sometimes he'd speak to them, say a few words, but mostly he just stared, silently. Eyes fixed straight ahead at the names, burning with bright, hard fire. Fixing them forever in his mind. Then, suddenly, he'd blink and look up, as if he was a bit surprised to find himself where he was. He'd shake his shoulders, chasing the tension from them like irksome flies, and walk away again, following the same path.

But his thoughts weren't just flies. Some were worms, burying into his shoulders, seeping into the muscles and wriggling down into his heart, up into his mind. Each one minuscule by itself, but not insignificant. Not by a long shot, because they were adding up fast, weighing him down. The shoulders would take a little longer to straighten each time, the sigh last a fraction of a breath longer. Slowly but surely, the grief was eating him, gnawing away and transforming into guilt.

Draco didn't notice this for the first few days. It wasn't until Potter became Harry that he picked up on anything at all. Draco had intended to approach the Savior after his mother's trial, give the man his thanks and be done with it. But of course things didn't work out that way; Potter had had to rush off to attend Snape's memorial.

Draco followed, partly to finally corner the prat and get things over with so they both could move on, and partly because he _did _have a tremendous amount of respect for his late Head of House and wanted to give the man his due. He hadn't planned to go at first (Death Eaters weren't welcome most places), but the two factors combined compelled him.

Sitting there, listening to Potter's eulogy, how emotional his voice got speaking about this man who he had never respected nor trusted nor even _liked_, seeing the tears in Potter's eyes, did something to Draco. He didn't know what, at the time, but it was something powerful. He was drawn to the man like a magnet, like a moth to a flame, the tides to the moon.

Draco then began a period of what very well might be called stalking. He was subtle about it, of course. Oh so subtle, always several whole minutes behind Potter (or ahead of him, when he could guess or overhear where the man was headed). No one knew, not even the annoyingly observant Granger girl.

So Draco followed, and watched. And it was during that time, specifically as he caught himself smiling hugely because Potter had stooped to pick up a sniffling child and whirl him around in the air to make up for the loss of the child's ice cream, that Draco realized just what that attraction was. It had _always_ been love, really. He was just too emotionally stunted, or too caught up in his father's web of rhetoric and expectation, or simply too comfortable in the bitter rivalry they'd had, to notice.

But he noticed now. And it captivated him. If Draco thought his hatred for Potter had been strong, it was _nothing _compared to his affection for Harry. He was obsessed- Malfoys had always been single-minded about some things, and Draco's was, apparently, Harry. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Harry, more if he could learn it. The tiny details, the little things that no one else knew, those small secrets that would give him an edge, make Harry see how right they were together.

And that was how he noticed it, the subtle signs of impending disaster. At first he thought he was imagining things, or exaggerating isolated phenomenon into a larger, nonexistent pattern. He'd had a problem with that in school; it was why he was so rubbish at Arithmancy. But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. Harry was headed for a crash. It might be years, even decades in the making, but it would come. Draco would bet his life on that. He knew the difference between mourning and clinging, reverence and devotion.

Yet no one else seemed to notice! Draco watched with increasing frustration as Harry's close friends saw him, talked, bonded, shared- and not one of them did a thing. They were all happy as clams; meanwhile this _thing _was taking root inside of Harry that would destroy him. Draco could see it clearly, because he understood Harry, how he would act. It would start slowly at first, maybe turning down some invitation in order to stand by Fred's or Remus' or Severus' grave. Then he'd attempt to keep the guilt at bay by eschewing all contact with the graveyards, _never _visiting. It wouldn't be enough. So Harry would throw himself into his work, put all he had into saving people as an Auror and leaving none for his family or friends. Take unnecessary risks, because when he was saving little Susie his mind's eye would see the Creevey boy in her place. And Harry would either get himself killed or severely injured. And the Head Auror would call him into his office, shake his head sadly, pat him on the shoulder kindly, and inform him that he'd preformed admirably and that it was a well-earned retirement he went into, with the thanks of countless civilians and the respect of everyone in the department. And Harry would be left with nothing. Nothing except the guilt.

Maybe Draco could help him, though. Maybe, standing by Harry's side, he could help keep the guilt away, put the focus on the now, the survivors. Life _after_ the war, so Harry wouldn't constantly be living in it. And with enough coaxing and prompting, with enough _love_, Harry could shuck off the burden entirely. Draco had no delusions about single-handedly fixing Harry, or doing so in a group; the effort would have to be Harry's alone. But Draco would help him see the need for it. Pull the others in with him, a united front, Malfoys and Tonkses and Weasleys and Longbottoms.

It would all start, of course, when Draco found the courage to actually speak to the man. He was _so close_, too. And then Harry said no to Teddy.

Harry told Andromeda, "No, I'm very sorry, but I have to be somewhere at one. I can come by around two, though, if that's okay." And of course it was, why wouldn't it be? But Harry had said no to Teddy- only for an hour, but it made Draco's heart sink. So soon? It was all happening so soon?

That "somewhere" that Harry had to be was Fred Weasley's grave. It was his own arbitrary appointment time. Draco stood aloof, partly behind a bush, watching the now-familiar ritual take place.

Only this time, Weasley and Granger showed up, too. Draco was positive it was a coincidence; Harry liked to be entirely alone during these visits, for one thing. For another, the couple arrived near the end of his vigil. They walked slowly, intertwined hands swinging slowly. Granger noticed Harry first, naturally. She and her red-haired mate brightened upon seeing him, but only to the extent that was appropriate for a cemetery.

They walked over to Harry and stood by his side, murmuring soft words. Draco couldn't make out what was said, being a bit far off, but he didn't want to risk discovery by an angry Weasel. All the while he stood with bated breath, hoping one of them would say or do something to snap Harry out of his reverie, or notice the state he was in.

There- Harry came to, blinked a bit. He said something to his friends, equally softly, and turned to walk away. The tell-tale shake of his shoulders banished most of the guilt, but not all, a tiny lump still evident in the way he carried himself.

Granger noticed! Her head turned to follow Harry's form down the path, and at his shrug her brows furrowed ever so slightly and she began to frown. Draco leaned forward eagerly, waiting, hoping. It would make his job so much easier, if he could have allies right from the start, even one like- The witch shook her head, curls flopping every which way, and the smile was back on her face.

Draco couldn't believe it. She'd noticed! She had _seen _the worms, the wriggling guilt, the oncoming storm. But she did nothing. Not a word, not a pat on the back, not anything. She was continuing to act like Harry was okay, like everything was fine.

Because she wanted it to be. She wanted Harry to be happy, and so Harry _must _be happy. If she acted as if everything was fine, well, it would be. She could convince herself that she had imagined the sigh, the slump, and carry on as she always had.

Or, no, Draco shook his head. That wasn't a Gryffindor thing to do. That sounded like Pansy, or Theo... well, he didn't really know Granger at all. Maybe she didn't want to risk setting off the very spiral she envisioned. Maybe, she thought that by ignoring it, keeping it out of Harry's notice, she could prevent it from happening. Out of sight, out of mind.

But that wouldn't work in this case, Draco was sure of it. This was something Harry had to confront head-on, like the Horntail dragon or the Dark Lord himself. He _had _to acknowledge it, to get over it and really truly live.

It seemed as if his friends weren't going to help in that endeavor. Granger was the ringleader; the others would follow her lead and do nothing, assuming they noticed at all. But something had to be done. Some_one_ had to do something. And if those closest to Harry, the ones who knew him best and who he respected and loved, refused, well then, maybe Draco had to step up.

People don't like hearing hard truths, especially about themselves and their flaws. Draco knew that, and knew that about Harry especially. The speech at Snape's funeral, how the Potion's Master made a habit of, in Harry's own words, "saying things I didn't want to hear," demonstrated this, because most of what Snape said were the very uncomfortable truths that you most _needed _to hear.

Harry forgave Snape, though, for everything. Maybe, he'd forgive Draco too. Maybe the shining, beautiful life Draco had fashioned in his mind for the two of them was still possible, the connection he was sure would develop could be even stronger with this added bond.

Yet, maybe not. Probably not. Snape was dead, after all, and had been heroic all his life. Draco wasn't the latter, by any means, and he didn't particularly want to experience the former either. So most likely, he'd be left with nothing but the same visceral hatred from Harry he'd experienced all his life. If he said nothing, proceeded with his original plan to win Harry's trust and affection before broaching the subject- But if Harry was saying no to Teddy, if he was closing off already, he might not ever open up to the degree Draco wanted.

Standing in the graveyard the next day, Draco seriously weighed his choices. Say nothing, possibly win Harry's affections, hope it wasn't too late. Or step out right here, right now, and say what Harry needed to hear, scare him off permanently- but save him in the end.

A flash of fire danced behind Draco's eyes, the feel of a slick hand in his tingled his palm. And another vision, sweet as air- Harry's smile as he held that child, tender and bright and so very full of joy.

He took a deep breath and strode down the path, head held high. Malfoys were bred to look commanding, and he used the lessons from Lucius one last time to fix the sneer on his face. "Potter."

Harry whipped around. "Malfoy," he growled. "What the hell are you doing here? Get out."

"This is a public graveyard. What are _you _doing here, Potter?"

"None of your damn business!" he snarled.

This was it. The moment. Draco looked Potter straight in the eyes and said, "I _know_ what you're doing. Bemoaning the few loses you've suffered when so many of the sniveling masses are _alive, _because of you. Your friends, the entirety of the Hogwarts population, innumerable Muggles. And you don't care. You know how _pathetic _you are? Your parents would be disgusted."

The look on Harry's face was forever imprinted into Draco's memory- utter rage, inexpressible; incredulity, that Draco had dared to say that, let alone to his face; and, lastly, the tiny bit of realization, of acknowledgment, that fueled everything else. He saw the truth in the words, and Draco knew he would act on it. But now, Harry just shoved him, hard, and stormed past, visibly shaking.

Draco had once heard somewhere that the only people who could tell you the truth about yourself were your most loving friends and your most hateful enemies. He clung to a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Harry would one day figure out in which capacity Draco had acted.

He never heard from Harry again.


End file.
